


How the Note Lingers

by InfiniteCalm



Series: Soundings [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1932, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Recovery, Weird Times!, description of depression, heavy!, period-typical understandings of mental illness, times are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/pseuds/InfiniteCalm
Summary: 1932: Thomas feels himself begin to wake up. It's harder than he thinks.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: Soundings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593997
Comments: 28
Kudos: 112





	How the Note Lingers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wasn't easy to write and so it might be difficult to read... heed the tags ladies n gents!! But there is a happy ending. Title a minor paraphrase of Divine by Laura Marling.
> 
> Thanks to my dissertation for finally being finished and to whatever weird illness I have now that isn't covid but is still weird!!

March 1932

Seven months gone, this time. Small gaps in the memory. Two small marks on his upper arms. Not big ones, not clear unless you knew where to look for them. Unlike- not. Don’t focus on it.

He’s alive now. The moment he realises that his head is clear again- he is stood in the courtyard with the blue bright sky, the fresh March breeze- hosts of daffodils. Etc. He’s not about to go on describing the easter eggs and the little bunnies.

A beautiful day. He feels like the countryside is spread out before him like a great vibrant quilt, and there is joy in the wind, in his smile a great sigh of _relief_. He is looking forward to replying to the latest letter on his desk. He hasn’t looked forward to writing those since- Jesus, since who knows when.

And then - he _doesn’t_ know when. He’s forgotten. He hasn’t noticed how far the distance between himself and the rest of the world has grown; forgotten what it feels like to inhabit his hands fully, to stand without being tired by the act of standing, to pay attention. _I didn’t always live like this,_ he thinks, and then he shudders, involuntarily.

 _I’m not gone,_ he thinks. _I’m still thinking._

But he pushes the thoughts aside. There’s work to be done, and he has never benefitted from a prolonged reflection on his own misfortunes. Wallowing in self-pity doesn’t do anything for him. It took thirty-three years to learn that lesson and it’s not going to be unlearned now. So push it to the side, and move on. There are banquet arrangements to finalise.

God, I- everything is so sharp and bright. What sort of wax was covering his eyes?

-

After the moment in the courtyard he slips, somnambulantly, back into it. His knees are hurting. He notices this when he walks up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs. Stairs; he resents them, resents how they mark his life, his station. And then he thinks, for god’s sake, you’ve got to get it together.

He lies in bed and wonders if he’ll ever get up again. He wakes when it’s still dark outside, too early, lies there and wonders if he’d rather if he never noticed that he’d shrunk at all, or if the moment in the courtyard had been something necessary for his own heart’s survival.

_Do I let him know that I feel this way? It’s disgusting, this tar inside me, it’s not human, not human to feel this revolting, jesus what would he do if he knew?_

And on one level this is worrying and a problem, and on another he knows it’s not at all a problem; nothing is a problem anymore. Richard will come to his senses eventually. Of course. It was only ever a matter of time. If Thomas just never wrote again it would make it easier on the both of them. Which is easy to do, because the action of sitting down and putting a brave face on everything - again - is unthinkable.

And yet, if he were lose Richard- the scent of his washed hair, his mouth- if he were to lose Richard. The only thing worse than this is the idea that he’d never- he’s so selfish. There’s so little left of him that he’s almost nothing at all, and he doesn’t know if he could bear to let Richard see him like this.

Writing him letters is hard. The only reason he’s still upright is that he gets the replies. Stories from work. Mediations on the news. The ways forward. A window into a world Thomas left, months ago.

_Hard at work here. Marchioness coming, bringing both the current and the next Marquis of Hexham (and her ward, who is not the next anything of anywhere - lucky thing, I suppose, I wouldn’t like to be saddled with a house this size w/out an army of servants to take care of it). Anyway there’s going to be a grand affair, all hands on deck (some of these hands will need to be press-ganged, as it were). The elder sister in a hump – husband’s garage doing well for the times but not so very well as all that, so no extra help at shop, and thus less husband at home. She decides to move some furniture about as a result. Oh to have that kind of free time. Of course it’s extra work for all us here. So I shan’t be able to make it to tea this week, though we knew that might be the case. Dreadfully sorry. Next time off sometime in April? The fifth (fri) is free for me. Hope for you too. Do let me know. I am aware this is not so convenient for you, and again I am sorry. But you know how it is (unless you have forgotten, two years since you were at beck and call). Weather good, but I feel rain on the way. You know how I feel about that._

There is something, a flicker of something, when Thomas carefully writes,

_Your friend,_

_T.B_

But then he has to get back into bed. There’s half an hour before he has to get up properly. May as well rest.

It’s much easier to stay like this, he thinks. Safer, better. Writing a letter is the hardest thing in the world. How would I begin to – there’s no way I could ever possibly climb up out of this fucking hole- except that he’s already begun, and the sun through his window is bright. And he never noticed that before.

Key change.

Oh God. He feels it happen.

The dawn is a fierce and forceful thing on his face.

-

It takes another week to wake up. He’s doing the books, watching the figures tot up.

 _I feel OK,_ he thinks. _I’m OK._

-

April 1932

Richard opens his green front door to Thomas and Thomas knows that he hasn’t gotten away with anything. Richard - he doesn’t pull back, exactly, but his shock is clear.

“You’re _ill,”_ he says, and before Thomas can protest, he is ushered inside with a protective hand guiding him to the parlour.

“Go on, go on, sit down. There. I’ll get tea, sit tight.”

Thomas gets up and follows Richard into the kitchen. Richard turns around after putting the kettle and crosses his arms. His lips are pursed, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Hello to you,” Thomas says, biting back something harsher. “I’m not ill.”

“You _look_ ill,” Richard says, “You’re so pale. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this pale. What’s wrong with you?”

Thomas feels the panic rising up and stamps down on it – later, later… not now. He takes Richard’s face in and he wonders how he could have deferred visiting this kitchen. Because he could have swung the time off, if he’d really tried.

It was weeks ago. Not that long. But the emotions he felt then may as well belong to a different man, they’re so alien to his own. How to even begin.

How to even begin.

“I’m not ill,” he says. “Have you read Anton Reiser?”

“What?” Richard says. “I’ve never even heard of Anton Reiser. Who is that?”

“It’s – never mind. It’s a book. It doesn’t matter.”

“ _Thomas,”_ Richard says, exasperated- Thomas looks up, guilty, guilty, and sees not the pursed lips of a genuinely displeased Mr Ellis, but- well, he doesn’t quite recognize the emotion. But he’s not angry. “Come here, love, I’m sorry, I’m only worried about you.”

He is hesitant, approaching Thomas, who in turn takes a few beats to respond to the embrace.

When he does it’s like he can’t stop. He’s gasping, for air maybe, or something else. _I do love you, I didn’t lose it. I didn’t lose it._ He pulls Richard tighter, who starts to make comforting noises, his hand tracing a line up and down Thomas’ spine. A few years ago this would have been embarrassing. He wouldn’t have stood for it.

The kettle boils.

Richard parts, kissing Thomas’ jaw carefully, the sound still loud even under the kettle’s cheerful whistle.

“Go into the bedroom there, lie down,” Richard says, “I’ll come up with a tray.”

Richard doesn’t like food in the bedroom, usually, so Thomas doesn’t protest his health again. A lie-down still sounds good. He’s tired.

“I’m not up for…” Thomas begins, but Richard is shaking his head already.

“I can see that,” he says gently. “I wasn’t asking anything like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says.

“Jesus Thomas,” Richard says. “Please, I’ll be up in a minute, love, you need to rest.”

Thomas walks along the hall, bright now, and heads into the bedroom, which is airy and clean, if untidy. He wonders if the big bed here is less lonely that the single one in his own room. It must be more comfortable, anyway. There’s a book with a marker on the nightstand.

Thomas falls onto the bed face-first.

Richard comes in, and Thomas doesn’t move. He hears the sounds of the tea-set being put down, and firm but gentle hands remove his shoes. The weight distribution of the bed shifts as Richard sits down.

“Shove over,” he says. Thomas does, and then clings to Richard, who sits almost totally slumped over with Thomas’ head in his lap.

“What’s this all about, then?” Richard says, hand smoothing his hair back off his face. “Tell me.”

Deep breath.

“Melancholia,” Thomas says. “I think.”

Richard says nothing for a while. Continues stroking his hair. The pomade will be rubbed out of it by now. Thomas breathes easier.

“Think they’re calling it depression, these days,” Richard says, a low rumble. “Saw an article in the _Times_.”

“Whatever it’s called.” Thomas says. “I’m better now.”

“Are you?” Richard says, tilting his face up and looking carefully. Thomas meets his gaze. “I suppose you’d know. You poor thing.”

“I do feel better. I’m just tired. But not as bad as it was. It’s better every day.” Thomas says. It’s triumphant, in his head. He hopes Richard hears that; I’m getting better, I’m nearly back to normal.

They are silent, listening to the wind outside.

“I don’t know what to say, Thomas,” Richard says eventually. “I really am sorry you went through it. It’s hard to put into- it’s a horrible thing- a horrible thing. Why on Earth didn’t you tell me? I would have helped.”

“You did help,” Thomas says.

“We’re going to talk about this, later,” Richard warns.

Thomas pushes that aside too. One step, one foot in front of the other.

“You did help.” Thomas repeats. “You and Phyllis were the only things that helped.”

“Darling.”

“Lie down,” Thomas says, tugging at Richard’s sleeve, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Richard does.

“My friend,” he says, low, and Thomas grips his shoulders. Something that had failed flickers back into his chest.

_I’m here._

Call and response.

The tea is cold when they rise but they drink it anyway. Nothing in Richard’s house ever goes to waste.

Thomas goes home. Or, he leaves home, to go to the place where he lives. When they get to the door, Richard looks at him, like he has something to say. But all he does is lean over and stroke Thomas’ face carefully, looking, looking, looking.

Thomas kisses him, and they kiss until the kiss plays out.

“Look _after_ yourself,” Richard tells him, lips still close to his. Thomas feels the breath brush against his face and wants to keep it there.

-

The train home is beautiful, as the lowering light shines brightly across the new green of the fields, and the spring lambs in the fields, and the pale blue sky growing braver. Thomas clasps his hands and feels the smile on his face, burning.

It’s almost dusk when he gets into the servant’s hall, but he’s still got a bit of time before dinner. Phyllis is mending at the table. Her eyes soften when she sees him. He feels lighter than he ever has, and yet he’s not that happy; just feeling OK, just feeling like a human being again. The courtyard again, only he thinks he’s done enough now to escape the sliding back. The asymmetric gravity that pulled him down the slope seems to have stopped flexing its power over him.

“How was York?” Phyllis asks, with a wicked little smile.

“ _York_ was good.”

“You seem happy,” she says.

“I am,” he replies.

She puts down the sock she’s darning.

“I'm glad. You deserve it,” She says.

“So do you,” he replies, and goes to freshen up before dinner.

He believes her. It’s a good feeling.

Outside, the setting sun glazes the courtyard bright red. Spring; at last.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr [@meryton-etc](https://meryton-etc.tumblr.com/) ask me something, we're all so bored. last line inspo [this poem.](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-prodigal/)


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